Crazy Signs

Ahhh.... we're back from our long-anticipated week at Club Med Beldi in Antalya, Turkey. Yes, Turkey and yes, Club Med. Our transformation to European Yuppies is complete. See, we had decided some time ago – really, after last summer's Italian adventure during which we realized that without child care, trekking through endless churches, baptisteries, and cobbled squares wasn't a vacation, it was just a trip – that this summer we would finally splurge on an all-inclusive, warm, beachy vacation. Between Jeff starting his new job, the move, the endless shopping and furnishing, the entertaining, we all needed one.

Italy, Schmitaly - watch Rome fall for a second time, moohahaha....

I spent April and May poring over the various family vacation websites – Thomson and Mark Warner here in the UK, the not-at-all-poop-suggestive babyfriendlyboltholes.com, etc. My SIL had always raved about Club Med –they go to the Dominican Republic every year, so I called to see if they had anything available with child care for the under-3 set. As it was late May, the only one with any space left was Turkey. Watching helplessly as Josie "painted" the new coffee table with strawberry milk before decoupaging it with Disney Princess stickers, I ponied up our Amex number toute de suite.

We knew it would be "hot," but having spent most of the summer in England I think our bodies all forgot what really HOOOOTTTT is. We stepped off the plane in Antalya in our long pants and fleeces and were nearly knocked out by the fiery, humid air – and that was at 9:30 p.m.! We woke up the next morning in our spartan, but serviceable, suite, walked outside, and WHAM. Yup, still hot. Still sweaty-in-your-shorts, every-hair-frizzing, Mr.-Heat-Miser HOT. Our dreams of sprinting around the tennis courts like Connor and Evert? Poof. The schedule of aerobic and "body conditioning" classes? Disintegrated. Bathing suits on, pretty much never came off the whole week.

Our vision of the truly relaxing vacation did, surprisingly (given how many of my visions/delusions are completely off-track) come to pass. Josie sprinted off to Petit Club Med "camp" every morning around 9:30. Jeff and I would swim, read until our tailbones ached, and swim some more. We took a remedial sailing lesson (mostly in French) and then added a morning sail to our repertoire. Aha, but that brings me to... the French issue. We told everyone we were going to "Turkey" for vacation, but where we landed was a tiny, purely French oasis on the Mediterranean. This, apparently, is standard for Club Med in Europe. 95% of the guests are French. 98% of the general announcements and conversations are French. And the ambiance and daily (and nightly!) entertainment? Oh, strictly French! It all comes down to a little something called "Crazy Signs."

What, you ask, are "Crazy Signs?" Likely you are picturing something like this:

Seen somewhere in Canada - don't mess with our badass meese!

And while that sign is indeed crazy, and not beyond the farcical French sense of humor – many of those Canooks are French after all – it is a mere shadow of the freak show that is Club Med Crazy Signs. It took us a few days to catch on, but as Jeff and I lounged in the shady chairs we had woken up at 5:30 a.m. to mark with various scents and personal items, we began to notice a strange occurence every day around 11:30.

Gawky 12-16 year old boys and the cooler, 12-16 year old girls gathered at the edges of the pool and on the pool's island. The smooth-jazz music that had provided such nice background to Mikail Blomkvist's endless consumption of coffee and sandwiches suddenly turned into booming French house music. And the hunky six-pack kids' sports counselor (they were all called G.O.s, while we guests were called G.M.s, boy was Jeff crushed not to have found himself in some Lost-type wish-fulfillment fantasy, somehow magically managing the Yankees from a Turkish fishing village) appeared with a LOUD microphone yakking some kind of Frenchy rap jibberjabber, inciting the teens to synchronized arm-waving and terrible-relegated-to-off-camera-Soul Train dancing. But why even try to describe this debauchery when I can show you? Check it out.

Everyone seemed to know the crazy signs, and accompanying nonsensical rap – something about let's go, let's go! I am tired, and so I will sleep, sha-ma sha-ma! [My favorite is the little kid just to the left of Monsieur Six-Pack – gazing up at him, thinking, "Eef I can do ze Crazy Signs, I too weel haf beeg muscles and win all zee chicks."] It was like a classic 50s musical – or that Oprah where the Black-Eyed Peas got 5,000 people to do the same dance. We sat, mouths agape. We had lived peacefully among these stoic, immaculately groomed and always-appropriate people for 18 months – and yet, clearly we really didn't know them. The drycleaning lady, the Cranky Potato Pancake Man, the Snippy Top-Floor neighbor, doing Crazy Signs? Ce n'est pas possible! OK, Mr. Dried Fruit Man, I can totally see doing Crazy Signs. But he's a special kind of mensch.

There's only one answer we could think of – it must be incredibly difficult to live 350-odd days a year as a French person, dressing just so, tolerating the strikes and Sunday closures, conjugating all those verbs, holding your face as though you'd just smelled something really foul (of course we are not referring to the completely laid-back French we hold as dear friends - and you know who you are). The yearly antidote? Crazy Signs! I can see some medicin writing it up now: "Fifteen minutes/day of semi-nude, quasi-epileptic wriggling, two weeks per annum."

Not even by going on a terrible, sick-making "sunset cruise" could we escape the insanity. As we clung, green and trembling, to the boat's rails, whispering quiet thanks that the familiar chairs and umbrellas were coming into sight, the skipper and accompanying GOs summoned us to the upper deck for a Very Special Throwdown. The network has issued the following warning: the footage you are about to see is extremely disturbing, and probably should not be viewed by anyone over the age of three.

How classic is that dad working the camera? I dare you to picture Martin Scorsese getting that level of freak on behind the lens. All this joking about the wacky Frenchies aside, I have to say it was really nice to be among our "other peeps" again. I realized how much I had missed being able to tune out inane conversations thanks to utter lack of comprehension. And honestly, we ended up chatting (with great effort) with more French families than the 2-3 British families there. I felt quite nostalgic making French small talk, eating Pains au Chocolat, and yes, even feeling like a schlub aside the impeccably-dressed French mothers. It didn't help that I was reading We'll always have Paris (and Provence) by Patricia Wells, and remembering with fondness our move to the City of Lights.

We even got caught up in the craziness – I was recruited, along with some other (French, of course) parents to do Crazy Signs onstage (oh, the humanity!) as part of the "Movie Marathon" show one afternoon, dressed in a red fright wig and sparkly toga (what the French think constitutes a "Saturday Night Fever" ensemble), and Josie, of course, appeared in the Petit Club show. Not sure why our daughter is the only one not wearing actual clothing, but she had a blast.

A star is born

All in all, it was a wonderful vacation and one I would highly recommend. The beach, as you'll see in the photos posted, was beautiful – not only much cooler and breezier than the pool, but incredibly peaceful with rolling mountains rising behind it. The food was incredible - each evening's meal was more creatively executed than the last, with huge, fresh fishes filleted and grilled before your eyes, piles of salads in every combination of fresh vegetables imaginable, yogurts, baklava... I think the intense sweating was the only thing that prevented us from gaining twenty pounds. I never worried for a second about Josie in the care of fun and completely attentive Petit Club workers. I read three books! Josie threw rocks (see right) And Jeff and I got some much-needed alone time. Everyone had fun - now that's a vacation! CRA-ZY!

I haven't even had time to blog about our wonderful visit with the Roger Rothman family, during which we saw the sights of Bath, the Cotswolds, and a nice chunk of the beautiful English countryside that surrounds our humble abode on Pulteney Street. I'll post the pics with descriptive captions, anyway.

Tomorrow Josie and I are joining my Parisian pal C and her children for one last hurrah at the beach in Devon. Sadly, the forecast is 50-60 degrees and cloudy/rainy. Still, I'm thrilled to see her and the British coast. It's our last "Bank Holiday" weekend of the summer, before school starts next week. Our summer started out a bit slow, in a new country with no friends, but now I feel as though it's really flown.

Makes me want to savor that last bit of summertime - crank some Bananarama, watch Kelly and Dylan fall in sweet, illicit love, sip a gin and tonic. I'm sure C will be up for at least 2 out of 3!

Sha-ma, sha-ma mes copains!

2 weeks in MI, and all we did was beach, beach, beach

Wow, sorry for that long bloggatical, but Josie and I just spent a steamy, sunny two weeks in the Moustachigan (so-named by my pal Jeff Hannah) and were just too busy, and sweaty, to blog (seriously - I tried but my fingers kept slipping off the keys, and my laptop's "condensation alert" light kept blinking). We had a wonderful time; Josie was reunited with Nom, Bee-pa and Unca Andy, and we saw bazillions of friends, played with puppies and explored most of Southeastern Michigan's finer cuisine. I'll try to hit the high - and low - points.


Boy did we pick the right time to go – total Americana week. It all kicked off with the newly re-branded "Boat Week" parade (now centered around the annual Port Huron to Mackinac Sailboat Race) in Port Huron, which was a bit different than I recall from my childhood (the Crossbow Float? the Walking Organ non-float? what happened to Girl Scouts and Shriners riding around in those little cars?) but jolly fun anyway. The next day, four generations of Davidson women met at the Golf Club pool for some swimming and lunch (thanks Gramma and Aunt Peggy!). Then my dad and I hit two Boat Night parties, seeing lots of friends old and new, high school, college and beyond. Boat Night is good, clean American fun...mostly. There was that priceless moment whilst waiting outside the Yacht Club for my friend M's husband to fetch the car and pick her up.

M: This was fun, I wish I didn't have to go so soon!
Me: Me too!
(six feet away, man is wrestled to the ground by two officers, tasered & cuffed for public urinating).
Man: Let go of me man, it was just a piss!
M: Yeah, maybe it is time for me to go.
Me: Yeah, I hear that.

Don't get me wrong, it was a terrific time. I only had to use the Port-a-John once, and now they provide hand sanitizer! And thankfully, Dad and I were home before midnight so that we could bounce up early with Miz Jo for my favorite Race Weekend activity, the Pancake Breakfast and Boat Parade. Wolfing pancakes, scrambled eggs and sausages, we would always watch the boats go out of the marina, under the bridge and down the river to the lake. I had not been in fifteen years (at least!) but it was great. Something about those big boats, festooned with flags and hunky, hungover deckhands really melts my butter.

Watchin' the boats go by

Race Day itself – everyone gathers on various beaches to "watch the race," usually a bit difficult as the sailboats are miles out, so it's really to swim, drink beer and eat fried food – was terrific, spent on the same beach with the same friends who've hosted us since I was four. Fried chicken, potato salad, seven-layer dip, even cookies shaped like sailboats. Unca Andy continued Josie's 2-week private swim tutelage and MAN is that girl a mermaid-in-training. She loves, loves, loves the water –lake and pools equally– and reaaally loved her first powerboat ride in a 1927 somefin-fancy-wooden-schmiffen-wiffen cruiser. We all loved that, actually. Thanks Mr. S.

The next week was a whirl of friends and children and beaches and pools. My friend A and I (one of the infamous Lemon Sisters) trucked to Ann Arbor for a very mini college reunion. It was the perfect 24 hours: late lunch at Dominick's (they no longer sell Amaretto Sours by the pitcher, we were both disappointed and relieved to discover, but they do still have the peel-and-eat shrimp Bethie!), stroll through campus, bit o'shopping, massage, used-book shopping (it is still us bookworm-nerds), and gorgeous dinner at Eve, a new restaurant opened by a former Top Chef contestant. Dinner was followed by a Nostalgia Pub Crawl, from Ashley's (so crowded we couldn't get in the door), to Cottage Inn, to Rick's (we may have been the sole patrons that evening), to Goodtime Charleys, where we made a BadIdeaJeans decision to order crazy college drinks in big Ball Jars, filled with all kinda crazy alkools like Maliblue Rum, Mocha-Chocalua, and possibly every ingredient contained in both the Slippery Nipple and Cement Mixer. Still, after stumbling back to the Campus Inn, we were able to stay up and chat until the wee hours. After a gorgeously greasy breakfast at the Broken Egg, we traipsed through the Art Fair, visited our respective sorority houses and our senior year group house, lazed on the grass eating Stucchi's, and finally headed back to reality –and our children– for a splashy play-date at the Troy Aquatic Center (SO fun! Those are tax dollars well-spent!).

Thursday my mom and I headed back to Ann Arbor for une vrai Art Fair promenade (hitting every booth, including the State Democrats and the Lemon Slushies), and Friday night began my 20-year high school class reunion weekend. It having been so hot, I'd had no time for shopping, and of course my husband was back in England, so I was dateless and had nothing to wear – just like high school! Thankfully, my friend E was at the ready as my escort (E and I have known each other since we were four and fought over her Hollie Hobbie colorforms, but really became friends at our 10-year reunion –proof there is value in going to these things) for both Friday night's "meet and greet" and Saturday night's main event. I had volunteered to help with the "class trivia" speech, and E valiantly offered to co-pilot; while giving Josie a bath earlier in the week I had decided it should be a song (in true Fanny Brice fashion, hoping if they laugh with you, they're not laughing at you). So E and I cooked up new lyrics to our class song, "I get by with a little help from my friends," full of references to stonewashed jeans, Motley Crue, and a bizarre Port Huron tradition called "Funeral," in which, before the football game with our crosstown rivals, we would construct fake corpses (of said crosstown players) and tie them onto the fronts of our cars and cruise around town. Aaahhhh, the good old days, before morbid pastimes like gang-violence video games and Facebook bullying took over kids' free time.

I had actually been dreading the reunion a bit... meant to lose ten pounds but in some strange fit of psychological subterfuge had actually gained ten (probably all the seven-layer dip and lemon slushies). Again, no time to shop so only had the probably too-dressy Parisian frock from last summer in my suitcase. But in the end it was quite fun – got to catch up with friends from early childhood through high school, even spending the afternoon prior on my friend A's beach with all her children (mine had refused to leave her new Beauty and the Beast dress). The white zinfandel was probably flowing a bit too freely, but hey – every 20 years or so is that really a crime? And the trivia song performance wasn't too much of a train wreck, thanks to the recruiting of our friends E, an Episcopalian priest, H, a vocal coach, and D and J, who were part of the original 1990 rendition.


The 2-week sojourn closed with more family fun, including a bbq styled by Unca Andy and a superfun trip on the Huron Lady, Port Huron's very own Bateau-Mouche (Josie called it a "Pirate Boat," of course, her obsession with Captain Hook remaining strong in our nautical village). I recommend this Lady to everyone living in or visiting the Port -- I learned some fun facts about ancient Native American lore, the production of fake rubber in Sarnia's Chemical Valley (yeah, thanks for all the cancer, eh?) and of course, hometown genius Thomas Alva Edison. Perfect way to round out the trip.

I should probably save the painful deets of our trip home for another post, save perhaps to reminisce wistfully about the good points – how one Continental staffer repeatedly paged me as "the lady flying to Brussels, with the small child, who was just here;" how yet another, when I dared ask about partner carriers that might carry flights later than the Bristol leg I would surely miss, directed me to go find out where Lufthansa flies and come back; how yet a third told me in response to my sweaty and exuberant thanks they didn't hold the Bristol flight for me, they never wait for passengers (um, thanks). Oh, and let's not forget the woman posted at the inter-terminal shuttle who told me to relax, and take my time, because the Bristol flight was delayed an hour (it wasn't). Good times. Can't imagine why this route has been canceled effective November '10.

We're back, safe and sound, but there's nooo rest for the wicked as Jeff's bro Roger and family arrived yesterday for lots o' gobsmacking fun. With the cheesetastic Bath Bus Tour and fascinating Roman Baths themselves under our belts, we've got 4 days left to cram in Cotswolds beauty, ale tasting, bike rides on the Avon, and lots of curry.

We'll close with Josie's latest favorite song, a ditty sure to battle Katy Perry and Snoop for the summer's top hit. It's "Wind the Bobbin Up," here on BATH 23FM, signing out.

Reaching for the Stars

Oh, Josie. We love her, but she makes us crazy. She asks for squiggle pasta, and so you cook it, but then she wants lines. She pretends to go to sleep and the second she hears your feet climb the stairs, the light is on and she's trying all the "future shoes" lying in wait in her closet. She loves all over the sitter and follows her around until we close the front door, and then it's all "I'm not tired," and "don't call me Josie."

Are you talking to me???

We read lots of parenting books. Happiest Toddler on the Block told us she was a neanderthal, and we should speak to her in chimp noises, feed her bananas and dress her in woolly mammoth skins. OK, so I made Jeff read that one. I don't know, it was something about their underdeveloped social skills and trying to relate to them by yelling along with them. Or something. Then there was Parenting with Love and Logic. This one is all about choices. Instead of saying "It's cold. Put on a coat!" you say, "Wow, it's a bit chilly out. Do you think you'd like to wear this purple sweater, or this pink jacket?" Sounds.... lame. So OK, I made Jeff read that one too. Cut me some slack, I had to get through Twilight: Eclipse before the movie came out. Thanks MJ.

All this caveman jibberjabber and waitress talk was turning into, well, just a lot of talk; meanwhile Josie was continuing to run roughshod over everyone from the FedEx man to defenseless babies in the park, with whose sand toys she would make off, cackling devilishly. I was running out of voice... and ideas. Then, I visited a very nice mum, married to a colleague of Jeff's and mother of two boys under 4 (I know... sainthood, right?). While she was preparing lunch for all our little cro-magnons, she opened the pantry and I spotted some sort of colorful chart featuring Bob the Builder (has anyone ever noticed, by the way, that Barack Obama totally stole his rallying cry?). "What's that chartymathingy?" I asked. Saintly Mum replied, "Why, that's their reward chart. They accumulate stickers for performing certain good behaviors, and every dozen stickers or so they get a different reward."

POSITIVE reinforcement! Genius (and something that would never occur to a born Catholic... or a Democrat). As soon as Josie and I descended from the train I trucked her home and hopped online. Three days later a Peppa Pig Reward Chart landed (via terrified FedEx man) in my sweaty little hands. But what tasks to choose? "Was a good girl," seemed too vague, "stopped smashing the walls with metal cars" just too specific. "Ate dinner" too obvious, "kept pants on" too suggestive. I settled on achievable tasks with medium difficulty and maximum desirablility: "Obey Hollie (the babysitter)," "Drink milk (the girl just does not enjoy a bovine cocktail)," "Stay in bed (the biggie)," "No YELLING," and "Come get ready for school when asked (we're not in a socialist country anymore, and nursery time is beaucoup de tuppence)."

Peppa Pig, you'd better deliver my dream child or it's BLT time!

The rewards: for 12 stars, a special ice cream at the stand in town; for 24, a "Peppa Pig present" (some junky prize from the Claire's Boutique on - no, I'm not making this up - Cheap Street); and for the grand total of 36, a movie - in the theater! Now that's a prize for everyone, especially if she can get her act together while Toy Story 3 is still in town! They just started running Whatever Works, the 2009 Woody Allen flick with Larry David, so I think our odds are pretty good. So far, so good – she gets the connection, although she tries to freelance a bit: "I made a pee-pee, that's three stickers!" "I didn't draw with Mommy's lip dip on the wall, that's four stickers!" But we are definitely seeing an increased appreciation for good behavior.

Today she hit 23 stickers, and I needed an outing, so I surreptitiously slid an extra star under "Drank milk" (a mum can dream) and off we went to Claire's Boutique. I managed to steer Jo away from Disney Princess nail decals and Hello Kitty spanky pants to the, yes, Peppa Pig section. "Don't you want a Peppa present?" I asked. "I want a Peppa Pig doll," Josie declared, brow furrowed. "How about Peppa sunglasses?" "No." "Oooh, Peppa fork-and-spoon set!" "No." "Peppa Pig ponytail holders?" "NO!" Star Jonesie tottered over to one of the salesgirls, imploring, "You have Peppa Pig dolls?" The salesgirl poked around a bit, apologized that they are quite popular, and offered to look upstairs for any remnants. She returned with a tagless, soiled pig that looked as though it had spent the winter lodged in a chimney or perhaps wandering our cave. Beaming, Josie declared the smudgy swine "perfect," and off we went. Her mood was so divine she even willingly accompanied me to Topshop to browse inappropriately young beachwear and to Marks and Sparks to buy new shades.

Back home, I gazed proudly at the star chart as though I had earned every sticker. Then I thought about what we had actually accomplished in these last eight weeks. If we had star charts of our own (mine would be Madonna. Jeff's would be that Bald Dude from the Shield. Chiclets.), what would they say?

FURNISHED FLAT: We landed in Bath in a nearly bare flat, coming from a furnished apartment in Paris. In just 8 weeks we've managed to acquire everything we need (from dishes to small appliances to couch, desk, lamps, bedding you name it), with our final chair and ottoman en route.

Don't you want to visit and have your breakfast here?

FOUND FOODIE FIXES: England isn't the culinary wasteland we were warned it would be. Yes, we miss our favorite French restaurants (and of course, La Grande Epicerie) but there's plenty of good food to be had here. Our neighborhood pub, the Pulteney Arms, is perfect for a Friday night bite, especially in the courtyard on a beautiful evening. No. 5 is a lovely French-Med restaurant, and Yo! Sushi offers conveyor-belt Japanese fare. Not to mention the Bath Coffee Festival and last weekend's Food and Wine festival, which leaned heavily towards the cheese/sausage/ale side of things, but was still terrific. And the Brits love to eat, so there are sandwich stands and pasty bars pretty much everywhere, like in the lovely and serene Parade Gardens, where you can fight a duck for your overpriced sandwich.

Mmm.... whatcha got there, foie gras?

TOILET-TRAINED JOSIE: OK, this one isn't UK-specific but is HUGE in the daily life of our family. She tried to start really early, at about 20 months (oh, those French!) and while it was a long road of oopses and half-hearted attempts, once solidly ensconced here in Bath it really only took 3 days of dogged effort. She's even sleeping through the night in "pants," which earned her a visit to the Disney store, where she chose this very odd, Huggabunch-reminiscent Belle doll.

Bribes as old as time, songs as old as rhyme...

HOSTED PARTY: For the quite American-specific Fourth of July, no less! We served up PB &J, seven-layer dip, chocolate-chip cookies, and yes - a fantastic flag cake. We had about 20 new friends, many under the age of 10, and it was a lovely time. We even had a special guest pop by!

Look! It's Rocko Bamba!

I made this! And yes, I think the Barefoot Contessa is a sick, sick woman.

PURCHASED APPROPRIATE TODDLER TRAVEL GEAR: When and if you visit England, you'll quickly notice that everyone between the age of 2 and 32 gets about on a scooter. No Big Wheels, no strollers, and apparently no walking. British kids get from A to B on a scooter - to be more specific, the Mini-Micro scooter. I stupidly dropped 20 quid on a Dora 3-wheeled disaster that had two large wheels on the back, so when Josie tried to move, her scooting foot (obviously) hit the back wheel. Once outfitted with the proper scooter (2 wheels in front), she was a scootin' fool. Check her out!

The weather here remains hot (too hot for the natives - today's play date has been moved indoors - and to a pool, so no one's complaining!) and beautiful. Tomorrow we're heading north on my long-awaited pilgrimage to Althorp, Princess Diana's childhood home and family estate. Prepare for lots of photos and weepy footage... Bon week-end, everyone!

Liberte, Egalite, Yoga Pants

There are so many things I miss about Paris...the baguettes, the pastries, walking along the Seine at dusk (or any time, really), the organic markets, the cafes.

You know what I don't miss? Feeling like I can't leave the house without looking like I'm going to a black-tie gala.

You'll note I say "feeling like", as this is a rule I often flouted but not without a smidgen of shame (plus, anyone who ever joined our troupe for the Smithsonian Young Benefactors' Galas knows what I look like at the end of a black tie event). It's bloody true, French women don't get fat, and they always look fabulous. If I left the apartment without blowing out my hair, coordinating my jewelry or putting on mascara it was usually with huge, dark glasses and a baseball hat a la Star Magazine "look how grody Nicole Richie looks when she picks up the drycleaning!" If I looked particularly bedraggled I may have even pretended to be a tourist, squinting at my Paris Pratique and exclaiming "Where IS the Arch duh Triumph?"

Before moving to Paris I skimmed the compulsory expat read, Almost French. In the touching memoir of an Australian journalist who moves to Paris to live with her French lover, there's a scene – yup, you all know the one, girls–in which the lover chides our heroine for wearing "track pants" (Aussie for sweats) to the boulangerie. I touched on this in an earlier post, but truly, in the minds of these merchants (who, granted, studied and worked extremely hard to attain the necessary licenses to serve you these delectables) you, the customer, are in essence entering their homes, and thus should be dressed in a way that indicates respect (this applies more to women; somehow men are able to get away with all sorts of outlandish looks, like orange pants and Converse All-Stars).

Where does he think he's going?

People have said, "well, you lived in New York..." implying that my 10023 zip code required I leave the door looking fresh off the set of Gossip Girl. In New York, really, anything goes. You're as likely to see someone roller-skating in Central Park in an evening gown as you are shopping in Bergdorf's in hot pants and rainbow suspenders. Work at a PR or advertising firm and you'll get that first-day-of-summer-dress-code e-mail: No flip-flops. No shorts. No tube tops. Tube tops, really? Well, the bosses have to draw the line somewhere - this is the burgh that spawned both Jennifer Lopez and the Naked Cowboy.

I don't think I'm surprising anyone when I say that yoga pants, as I prefer to call them, are a staple of my wardrobe. As a new mother in Nyack I often stayed in them for most of the day – much to the chagrin of my always impeccably-groomed mother, who was raised in the Paris of the East, Grosse Pointe – mostly because between a freelance job and an infant I was never sure when I'd get a free forty minutes to run out and exercise. In fact, when said sainted mother fell whilst staying with us and helping with newborn Josie, breaking left ankle AND right wrist, I whisked her to Target for clothing we could pull over an air-boot and temporary cast without too much difficulty. Even in her intense pain, my mother was gesturing limply towards tailored separates, but I stealthily steered us into the pajama section, convincing her the very comfy and highly elasticized eXhilaration PJ bottoms were yoga pants. I might have even called them Pilates trousers for extra plausibility.

But I digress... when I joined the gym in Paris, I thought finally, this would be my get-out-of-jail-free card. Because surely the French women sweat, like everyone else, and thus sport the appropriate gear to Club Med Gym. Oh, but I was wrong. The locker room was filled with leggy blondes in eighty-euro La Perla camisoles, blow-drying, nail-filing, eye-lining, and lip-glossing. Few were showering, not too surprising since none of them appeared to actually sweat in the cardio room. When Parisiennes exercise they look like this:


And the gym isn't the only place you're supposed to look fabulous. As my friend MJ has wryly noted in one of her witty posts about mothering in Paris, school pick-up apparently necessitates a manicure, chemical peel, and a swing through Gerard Darel. And not only the Parisian women believed the hype; I'd been to many a play date at which American/British/Kiwi mothers were dressed in skirts and knee-high boots.

Well, here in the UK, I'm as schlumpy as I wanna be! After all, we have much better role models on this side of the channel.



















I drop off Josie at nursery in my gym clothes, I grocery shop with hat-head, I go to the dentist in my bathing suit, it's all very liberating.

I'm off to see The Man from Stratford – with Simon Callow, better known as Mr. Beebe in Room with a View and the subject of the Funeral in Four Weddings and – a new play about William Shakespeare, at the Theater Royal this evening. As Jeff is still traveling home from Amsterdam, I am squiring my upstairs neighbor, T (of the Friendship Circle). Yes, I will wash my hair for T, and perhaps even put on some mascara. I always try to look my best for a first date.

Lots coming this weekend as well! The Food and Wine festival here in Bath, and of course, the Fourth of July which –worry not – will be celebrated with gusto by the Americans on Great Pulteney Street (along with some Brits, Aussies, Kiwis, and even Argentines!). See you on the other side of sparklers, boxed chardonnay, and (urp) Ina Garten's flag cake!